Growing Up With Holmes
by Safiyyah
Summary: In the year 1988, John Watson meets Sherlock Holmes. They really hit it off. Follow their relationship from the ages of 8 to 30 through Watson's eyes. The words "I love you" seem to change in meaning as they grow older.  AU. Slash
1. The Early Years 1988 to 1991

_+ Excerpts from John H. Watson's Journal (1988-2010) +  
_

**June 30th, 1988**

Dear Journal,

Hello! So, I'm sitting here, writing my very first journal entry! Mum says it's good for "therapeutic reasons" or something. I don't know what that means, but it's probably good. Anyway, who cares about that boring stuff.

I'd like to tell you about my new friend. We've only been in this place—England—for one month and I made a really good friend. His name is Sherlock Holmes. It's an odd name, but I like it! I wish my name was a fun as his name. I bet you're wondering what he looks like. His hair is messy, and he's shorter than me. He laughs weirdly.

As much as I like Sherlock, Mum tells me that he's no good. She tells me that his real parents abandoned him as a baby boy and he's all messed up 'cause of it. I say bullocks! (I hope mum doesn't read this). I like him a lot. Even though he's odd and his room is really messy, he's smart. He knows things that no one else knows! He's like a magician. The first thing he said to me, before we were best friend, was "That must have been a good Black Jack. Have any more?"

I was amazed! How did he know I had just eaten that candy? So, I said, "How did you know I ate that?"

"You have a black tongue. And I can smell the flavoring from here," he said with a funny smile.

"Oh," I said. I thought he was some kind of wizard or something. Anyway, he's been guessing stuff about me every day! I keep testing him saying, "What did I eat today?" And you won't believe it, journal, but he guesses it right every single time! I think this is going to be a very nice friendship. Maybe I can learn to be a wizard like him.

There's so much to tell you, but I have to go now, journal, dinner is ready!

_-John_

**February 14th, 1989**

Dear Journal,

I've eaten so much candy today! Our school had a whole chocolate fair. You must be jealous, journal. I feel bad for you. You can't ever eat chocolate! Haha! Oh, there were also pretty cards and stuff. They had some girly pink hearts on them, so I stayed away. I am not a girl.

Anyway, something else happened today other than the chocolate fair and cards. I was talking to Mary, a girl from my class, when Sherlock tapped me on the shoulder and brought me to the side of the playground. He whispered to me. I don't know why he did that, but it was like he wanted to keep stuff a secret.

"I have something to give you," he said quietly. I was confused and excited at the same time. I love gifts!

"Here." He handed me a white envelope that said "To John" on the front. His handwriting was pretty. He told me to open it when I got home. I put it in my jacket, waved good bye to him, and ran back to grab more chocolate.

The first thing I did when I got home was shout to Mum, who was watching the tele, that I was home. Then, I tore open the envelope and looked down at a card with badly-drawn black heart on the front. Inside the heart, it said, "Happy Valentine's Day!" I opened it. Inside it said this:

_"Dearest John,_

_I'd like to thank you for your friendship. You're the only friend I've ever had. Being with you makes me so happy. I hope I'll be with you forever. I love you. Happy Valentine's Day!_

_Love,_

_Sherlock Holmes"_

I was so happy when I read it. It was the nicest thing anyone had ever said, or written, to me. I hugged the card. I brought it up to my room and put it beneath my pillow. Now, it'd never leave my side, and I'd be able to look at it whenever I was sad. And now, I have to do homework. Mum keeps nagging me about it. Talk to you later, journal!

_-John_

**August 28th, 1991**

Last night I slept over Sherlock's house. We had planned it about a week in advance, and I set up a chart listing all of the things we wanted to do. After his mum and father went to sleep, I showed Sherlock the list and he laughed in my face. It was rude and I frowned.

"Forget that list. I've got something cool to show you," he grabbed my hand and led me to the upstairs hallway. He pulled a cord, and stairs slowly floated down, revealing an attic. It was dark and creepy. I couldn't wait to go see what was up there!

I darted up the stairs, leaving Sherlock behind. The place had wooden walls, and a lot of exercise equipment. It wasn't anything too exciting. There was a large red pillow hanging from the wall in the center of the room, with boxing gloves lying on the floor. There were also a lot of mattresses on the floor, and some weights on a rack. Holmes poked me, and I turned around to see him smiling evilly.

"So are you going to show me some Bruce Lee moves or something? My father loves him and his movies!" I cried.

He laughed again. "Sure, sure. Something like that."

So he showed me his moves. He jump-kicked and spiraled in the air. I clapped. He lifted really, really heavy weights a couple of times, and handed them to me. I nearly fell the ground, and my muscles hurt really bad. Then, he started punching the big red pillow. He punched it so hard that the pillow flung madly around on the hook. Then he stopped and quickly turned toward me.

"John, I'd watch out it I were you."

"What? Why?" I asked nervously.

"Because...I'm going to get you!" He cried and charged toward me. Before I could turn away and run, he'd grabbed my waist, lifted me in the air, and pounded me into the mattress. I was breathing heavily out of shock. Sherlock had pinned me down and pinned me good. I couldn't budge my legs, because his were forcing mine shut.

"Wow," I said, my chest heaving really fast. And there was that big smile of his again. He looked at me, and I looked at him for awhile. I had never realized it, but I liked his face. It had a nice shape. Then you know what he did? Don't laugh, journal. Wait, you can't even talk! Anyway, he kissed me. He leaned in fast (he almost knocked his head with mine!) and kissed me sloppily on the lips and I let him. I think, I'm not sure though, that I kissed back. I don't know! I've never kissed before. I'm young! I felt all tingly and happy everywhere. Then he pulled away from me, and I gave him a smile. I was so happy in the moment that I didn't even think that I just kissed a boy. That's not how it is supposed to be. Mum had said so. Whatever, I hide this journal under my bed. Mum never cleans my room. I always do that on my own.

"You're the best, John," he said while only several centimeters from my face. I wanted to kiss him again, but I stopped myself.

"So are you," I said. After that he rolled over and laid down next to me. We talked for awhile about everything...until we heard birds chirping. That meant it was really early in the morning. I fell asleep before Sherlock, and I feel bad. I must have slept while he was talking or something. But I told him, in the morning, that I was sorry. He hugged me and I went home. Now I'm here. That was a fun sleepover. We planned another one for next week, and I'm even more excited for that one!

_-John_

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I appreciate your feedback. :D


	2. Seventeen 1997

_+Excerpts from John H. Watson's Journal (1988-2010)+_

**June 10th, 1997**

Holy shit, journal. Something major happened today. Let me set it up for you. Today was the big rugby game and we won, thank God. Coach would have tore our asses to shreds if we lost. You don't even know how much training we've been doing. So me, being the huge suck-up that I am, decided to stay behind after the game in order to chat up the coach about my prospective "captain" title. I mean, come on, I played really well today and he knew it. I talked to the guy for about half-an-hour. He eventually agreed to "at least nominate me." His son was also on the team. Yeah, that's why it took so much god damn convincing.

After that somewhat successful conversation, I made my way to the locker room. Everyone except one other slow guy was still washing up (I don't understand how guys can spend half an hour in the shower. Guess he was having a good wank?) I threw my sweaty clothes into my bag, and flung a towel over my shoulder. I chose a secluded shower on the far end of the hall.

I then heard the echo of a shower faucet squeak off and turned toward the sound, forgetting I was stark naked. I saw a foot, then two. Eventually, Holmes' body materialized before me, his waist wrapped snugly in a white towel.

He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just froze in position. His eyes shifted from my head to my toes. He was practically gawking. Then he gave me a polite nod and walked away.

I was freaking the fuck out while I showered. Then I reasoned to myself: "It's just Holmes." But then I realized: That's the problem. _It was Holmes_.

I turned the faucet off, tied a fresh towel around my waist, and walked over to the sink and mirrors. The mirrors were all foggy, so I rubbed a spot with my palm. And who do I see in the reflection, once the mirror was clear? Sherlock fucking Holmes. The moment I saw his face, I jumped a bit and put a hand over my chest. The man was like a fucking ninja. He was sitting on the bench behind me, just staring at me in the mirror like a statue.

I said, "Fuck, man. You scared me. What are you still doing here?"

"Sorry. I just wanted to talk to you," Holmes said with a smirk. I gulped, unsure of what to expect.

"It's cool. What's going on? Are you alright?" I said with a hint of concern and fear. Except Holmes didn't seem to be troubled. He seemed one-hundred and ten percent care-free. Still, I got pangs of nervousness in my stomach. What was so important that he needed to be all dramatic about?

Holmes sighed and looked straight into my eyes. "I'm completely and utterly attracted to you, and I think I have been for a very," he paused, "very long time."

I was going to say something, but my throat closed up like I was going into anaphylactic shock. I must have been allergic to confessions, because it seemed that every time I told my exes that I'd cheated on them, or that I didn't want to be with them anymore, I'd get this feeling. But, this time it was different. I wasn't the one doing the confessing.

But that's just a metaphor for my loss of pride, journal. Don't take it literally.

I'd told myself time and time again that I did not have sexual, or heightened emotional feelings for Holmes. But that was obviously deep-seated denial. I had super, ultra, mega sexual and emotional feelings for Holmes and have had it for a long time. I didn't think Holmes would have felt the same way, though. He hides his emotions far too well.

I felt helpless after Holmes confessed his feelings to me. It was so sudden and informal. I felt like an idiot, because I had felt the same way he had but never had the audacity to actually say it. I also felt like a idiot because I was dumb-founded by the confession and didn't say a word in response for what seemed like, to me, an hour. I was thinking about a thousand things at once. But it was actually more like a minute or two.

"Uh…" was all I could say, trying to stall. Holmes raised an eyebrow, waiting patiently for a proper response. "Well, between just you and me…"

"Hm?" Holmes said smugly. I then realized he was calm. Why the fuck was he so calm? Then it dawned on me.

"You are an absolute bastard," I said angrily. "You've always known how I felt about you."

"Well done, Watson. You've deduced a deduction! That's a truly great feat."

I put my hands on my hips and scowled. "So I don't need to say anything. You know it all already, Almighty Holmes."

"Precisely."

I sighed and rubbed my temples in annoyance. "Why the hell are you telling me this now? In the washroom of our school? Really, that's in poor taste. We've known each other for nine years. Nine years of sexually repressed feelings could have been obliterated if you'd said something sooner. That's a long fucking time, man. I broke a lot of hearts in that time span."

"My dear Watson," he started. He always said that. I secretly liked it, but my parents told me they thought it was a bit too fem for their tastes. They really hadn't a clue. "I think your sexual repression was negated by the many young ladies you've taken to bed. But to answer your question, when I saw you earlier, I realized something needed to be done. I can no longer be missing out on that," his eyes wandered to my groin, "lovely form of yours."

I threw my hands in the air. "Please, don't be coy! Tell me how you feel!" And my inner pansy made me blush. Thank the heavens we were in a muggy old washroom, where it was difficult to separate a blush from simply feeling overheated. I sat next to Holmes and ran a distressed hand through my hair.

"So now what?" I said.

"I'm not quite sure." He spaced out and it was quiet for a while.

"You don't find this strange in the slightest?" I interrupted the silence.

"Well, not entirely..." he said.

"We're best friends. This," I pointed to myself and then Holmes, "is going to strain our relationship."

"On the contrary. It will make it stronger."

So the rest of the day left me feeling annoyed, relieved, and unsure at the same time. And here I am now. Shit is getting kind of stressful. The phone's ringing, and I'm positive that it's Holmes. He promised he'd call me around this time. Later.

_-John_

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**June 25th, 1997**

Dear Journal,

Remember I said that I was somewhat stressing out over the whole Holmes thing? I settled down over the past two weeks and came to terms with everything. But now? I'm drowning in stress. Holmes basically, practically, pretty much said he loved me today. I mean, we were high and all but I don't throw those words around lightly.

Okay, you're probably curious about the back story. Since we have so much time, and you have so much paper, I'll tell you about it.

After our rendez-vous in the locker room, Holmes called me and we vowed to keep our situation on the down-low. I suggested that we go on a date or something but not somewhere too flashy and obvious. He was hesitant at first, but I convinced him to go through with it.

So today I met Holmes on my front porch and we jumped into the piece-of-junk car that mum had bought me for my 17th birthday. We acted like it was the old times-laughing and talking about random shit-on our way to the beach. I think we were pretending nothing was different between us.

We made sure to bring our own towels and set each one up on the sand, only centimeters away from each other. I urged, nay, nagged Holmes to put on sunscreen, but he complained that he hated the sticky feeling. The sun was not going to be kind to his skin tone that was for sure, so I sneakily rubbed some sunscreen into my palms, said "How are you doing, man?" and smacked his back several times. He snarled and I continued to rub his back and laugh.

"You're acting like a child, Holmes. Let me do it." I had to hold his shoulders in place and turn him around sharply. I rubbed his back methodically, covering every nook and cranny possible. I admired his muscly back, then immediately felt jealous that I didn't have his exquisitely fit body.

I'm not going to say I didn't ignore it, but I tried to ignore the stares we were getting. I don't think Holmes noticed, but I definitely did. Everyone has to know everyone elses business, don't they?

After about an hour in the sun, and an hour of Holmes prodding me to go for ice cream, we made our wade to the boardwalk and got ourselves some soft-serve ice cream. I practically had to run to the stand to make sure I was the one who paid or it all. Holmes whined that I didn't give him a chance, but I told him to shut up.

We sat on one of the benches that faced the water for a very long time. It would have been a beautiful sight if there hadn't been a myriad amount of families parading about. At one point, Holmes awkwardly dove in for my hand, clasped his in mine, and rested our hands on my thigh. I was still eating the ice cream with my other hand, so I was trapped.

"Come closer," Holmes cooed. His eyes were curtained with lust.

"Wut?" I said stupidly.

"You're adorable, you know that?" His words were velvety and reassuring.

"Hush," I said and continued to eat my ice cream. I secretly loved the compliment.

"Come closer," Holmes repeated.

"No," I said firmly. I engulfed the the ice cream with my mouth, sucking it, and skillfully slurped up the drops that were rapidly falling down the cone. I'm a bitch.

"Now you're just teasing me," Holmes said.

I chuckled, but Holmes had on a serious face. He was planning something in that vast, twisted mind of his. Boy, did I know Holmes or what?

Our clasped hand immediately broke apart, and that same hand ran it's way from my stomach to my chest and grasped my chin. He turned me toward his face and forcefully kissed my sticky, ice-cream stained mouth and thrust his tongue in. And, hey, he tasted like cherries. That was a plus. He was touching me everywhere. His hand even slipped underneath the band of swim trunks and he grabbed my ass. He seemed to really like my ass, because he held onto whilist sucking my face off. I felt his hand on my bare thigh and anticipated it creeping toward my cock, but he pulled away immediately. I was as hard as a rock, and kind of upset that he stopped doing whatever the hell he was planning on doing.

Now the staring was intensified. I had never felt so judged in my life. A woman even came up to Holmes and I and whispered, "You know this is a family friendly beach, right?" Oh that made me fucking pissed. I shouted, "You know this is a free country, right?" right in her ugly face. Holmes held my arm back to make sure I didn't straight-out punch her.

The woman rolled her eyes and walked away, muttering obscenities under her breath. Holmes insisted we get out of that dreadful place and go somewhere cooler. We changed into normal clothes and left the beach. So, we had lunch, went to the cinema and had dinner. Holmes said he had brought his bong and weed, so we decided to smoke that shit in a park nearby our houses. It was already 10 o'clock at night, so the park was fairly empty. There were probably some gangs hanging around the place, but I didn't care.

We sat under a willow-like tree, and got high. I think we laid in the grass and were wrestling or something. I don't even know. As I laid back, watching the stars and zoning out, Holmes took the opportunity to lick my neck. I let him do it. He licked my face too and meowed like a cat.

"I want to fuuuuck youuuuu," Holmes croaked at some point. He had lifted my shirt and was running a finger around the rim of my belly button. "Nice belly button, man."

"Shut up, you're as high as a motherfucker, motherfucker."

"Hey, hey John," he said. He poked my stomach hard, and I cringed.

"What? Hey, stop doing that, bitch." I curse a lot when I'm high.

"I think I love you, man. Like, actually love you."

I stiffened. I thought about it, then forgot about it, then thought about it again. "Oh. Wow, that's really deep," was all I said.

"Hey, hey John. Remember that sleepover thing we did when we were like...eleven?"

"Mmhm."

"When I wrestled you in my attic, I like...got a raging boner."

I laughed so hard. I thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Holmes joined in the laughter and that was that.

Now I just can't stop thinking about Holmes telling me he loved me. Maybe I'm being way too anal, but I need to know if he meant it or if it was the pot talking. I'll certainly find out.

_-John_

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For those wondering, they're 17 in these excerpts. There will be one or two more teenager journals, then I'll move onto adult life.

Reviews would be faaantastic. Thanks! :)


	3. University Life 1998

_+ Excerpts from John H. Watson's Journal (1988-2010) +_

**August 20th, 1998**

This summer hasn't been very eventful, unless cleaning up shit and piss from a bed pan and washing old, wrinkly backs with sponges is your idea of a good time. I got this internship as a nurse aid and received a stipend of €12.00 an hour, worked 7 hours (Monday thru Friday) for almost two months…so it added up to a good amount of cash.

This summer was basically me, sick people, and Holmes. And I wouldn't have had it any other way. Well, maybe I'd have it without the sick people but they were my best bet for getting a new car.

Holmes and I, um, mucked around a lot—at the cinema, the park, the beach, the countryside, and in the car. We did everything together.

Basically everything but shagging. I'm hoping to remedy that in, oh, approximately two weeks time (when we go off to University and finally have a god damn room to ourselves). Can you believe Holmes is an 18 year old virgin? I know. I couldn't believe it either because he's so damn forward about _everything_ else. He told me he just hadn't found the right person until me.

Our peers over here seem to look down on virgins but, me? I say good for them! More power to them! To be a virgin as a young adult shows great self-control and self-respect. I kind of, sort of wish I hadn't let my hormones take over and shagged that painfully shy 15-year old artist only three years ago. She was a freak in bed, but it wasn't particularly how I wanted my first time to play out.

I'm both nervous and extremely excited for University. I'm nervous because it's going to be such a massive difference from being home. Unfamiliar people and environment. The usual school jitters. I'm excited because I don't have to live at home anymore with my tosser of a brother (living at home at 28? Seriously?) and nosy parents. I love my parents, but they can get on my nerves most of the time.

But the real reason I'm excited? Holmes and I get to share a dormitory. It's going to be ridiculous. Plus we are in some of the same classes since I'm planning to go to medical school and Holmes is studying chemistry. I'll basically be joined at the hip with him.

Holmes and I aren't exactly being loud and proud about our relationship. From far away we look like two very close friends but look a little closer and you'll see Holmes' cock in my mouth.

I'll guess I'll just have to raise a pint to open-mindedness at Cambridge.

**_-John_**

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**November 1st, 1998**

Our entire floor went to this crazy Halloween costume party yesterday and we all drank ourselves into oblivion. I don't really remember much from that night but all I know is that:\

a) I'm hung-over with a glorified headache

b) Holmes isn't speaking to me

c) My Paul McGann Eight Doctor costume has nasty stains from god knows what.

Shit, there's the door.

...

Well he's pissed. Apparently I was sucking face with some upperclassman in the cupboard under the stairs. It's not like I was coherent enough to recognize what I was doing, so I don't get why he's so fucking mad. He couldn't even look me in the eye when he was speaking. It's that bad.

He went off on a long rant saying that he was not sure if I'm trustworthy enough to be his boyfriend (that really stung, I'm not going to lie; I think of myself as one of the most trustworthy people I know) and that all of his life he has had an extremely hard time trusting people. But he never said why. He just stormed out of the room.

I guess he'll need some time to cool down and I'll have to speak to him eventually, right? He does share a room with me.

-_**John**_

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**December 20th, 1998**

Five days to Christmas holiday, and boy am I glad for that blessing. The work load is already unbearable, and I've barely even settled into the bloody University.

Oh, it was my birthday yesterday…and I got a very, very, very nice gift from Holmes. By gift I mean he allowed me to shag him in our dorm room whilist a Paganini tape played soothingly on our stereo. Not only was it soothing but it helped drown out Holmes' strangulated noises.

But something wasn't completely perfect about it. I'll describe it in full detail, journal, and you'll see what I mean.

Once he decided he was ready I slowly lowered him onto the duvet of my bed and appreciatively removed his clothing. I allowed myself to observe his form as I steadily removed my own garb—I'd seen him stark nude plenty of times before never in such an intimate way, under the light of a singular lamp, the decrescendo of a violin and the way his brown eyes glistened in anticipation.

His body was more lithe and muscular than I'd last remembered, as if he'd been preparing for this moment and hoping not to dissatisfy me—as if I would ever be dissatisfied with him.

I crawled on all fours and scooped down and kissed him softly, multiple times on his soft lips and his hand found my hair and ruffled it up.

There were fingers sliding down my waist in that scientific, prodding Holmesian way and his hand eventually cupped my arse and squeezed on the firmness I'd worked so hard to achieve. I was rubbing against him now, slowly increasing our friction and I became harder than stone. Holmes length pressed onto my leg, and I smiled into my kiss.

I pulled my face away to just take in his visage in all its angular glory and I brushed hair his maddening hair from his forehead.

"Are you ready, beautiful?"

"Do I even need to answer that?" Holmes growled.

So I grabbed a tube from my sidetable, poured some of it into my hands, my fingers kindly invaded Holmes' space and he whimpered when I massaged and hit his prostrate. After I removed my hands, and provided every other safety measure, I pulled his legs over my shoulders and positioned my throbbing member by his entrance. I licked my lips and he gave me a "come on you twat, I'm oozing with the need to have you inside me" look. He moaned so fucking loudly when I first entered his hot, tight space and god did I get off on that. But I kind of wished he'd keep it down because the walls are most likely paper thin. If anyone asks I'd say Holmes was watching porn way too loud. Heterosexual porn, of course. With massive, bouncing breasts and overly dramatic sex noises. Yeah.

"Am I hurting you? Just let me know and I'll stop," I asked roughly.

"No, John. God no. It feels g-great. Keep going for fuck's sake," he said breathlessly, commandingly and I obliged. Several thrusts and heightened ecstasy mind-swirling moments later (paired with mess of cum), I collapsed onto Holmes and hugged his waist tightly, kissing his shoulder.

It felt like the first time despite it not being it. The tender way Holmes cupped my chin and caressed my face afterward and the way he looked at me in that hazy-eyed post-coital gaze gave me this warm feeling my chest. I couldn't help it—it was just too perfect of a time not to say it.

"I love you," I blurted out nervously. Holmes simply pulled me in toward him and kissed me and I kind of frowned into his mouth. And that was that.

Do you see what I mean? There was a gaping hole (other than Holmes' anus after I finished with him. Woops, sorry, was that too obscene? I'm not usually like that, sorry. Fuck it, no one else it reading this but me) in that night. Those same three words that I'd said so boldly were still missing and were stuck somewhere within the depths of my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes.

What. The. Fuck.

**_-John_**

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**AN:** Mother of God, I'm seriously sorry for this long amount of time it took me to publish this chapter. There wasn't much of a reason why other than I didn't know what the hell to write and I forgot about it. I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed and fav'd this story. I really appreciate it. You're my motivation, and I'll make sure to get the next chapters up quickly.

Next chapter(s) deals with the end of University life and the beginning of adult life. Expect fluff and angst. ::)


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